Nergal
by mf32
Summary: In the bitter first days after the Weeping War in the Forgotten Realms, Nergal the Dragonborn is assigned to carry a message for the Army of Darkness that occupies Myth Drannor. Will he fulfill his mission? Will he win honor for himself and his race?


Nergal

A/N: This Dungeons & Dragons Forgotten Realms fanfic is adapted from a true story of the American Civil War (1860-1865). It was written up as a short story called: A Persevering Messenger, chapter 1 of "Deeds of Daring by Both Blue and Gray" by D. M. Kelsey, which was published by Scammel & Co. in 1883. Downloaded from Project Gutenberg. Many thanks to my wonderful husband and beta, Tim. Also thanks to the Forgotten Realms Wiki for providing such thorough, well-organized background info.  
Reviews welcome!

Nergal the Dragonborn picked his way through the tree stumps and tumbled down buildings at the edge of the war-blasted city. His scaly hand held tight to the pommel of his blunted and notched old sword. The fighting was over, the Elves had retreated out of their City of Crowns, out to the surrounding woods, but the feeling of danger was still palpable under cloudy late spring skies. A careless soldier of the now triumphant forces whistled jauntily as he ambled among the ruins. Apart from that, all was still at the edge of Myth Drannor, guards silently crossing and re-crossing as they walked the borders. They seemed to Nergal to be floating along in a surreal manner, as in someone's shell-shocked dream.

Nergal had just arrived from his native Tyrmanther, where he had received his martial training for the Lance Defenders, the highly skilled army of his race. But he was not in Tyrmanther now. Nor did he ever seem likely to be.

He had a new start here. He had been given a chance by his commanding officer, a colonel in his new regiment in the Army of Darkness, and he was determined to show his worth and earn an honorable place in the occupying forces. His first assignment was to take a message from a General in the city across enemy lines, and through to another General's representative in the mid-sized town of Ashabenford. It had to arrive by midnight the next day. To accomplish this, Nergal had gotten himself a place in a departing caravan train of neutral traders. His being new to the area (he had not even been issued a uniform yet) worked in his favor. When he had asked to ride along, the greasy haired, mustachioed head man had squinted his hard eyes at him and cocked his head a little sideways, saying "We don't see no dragonborn around here usually, but, sure, ye can come along." Something about Nergal had pierced his normally suspicious shell. He seemed so pathetic and earnest, standing there, his great leathery snout almost looming over him, but gaunt and half-starved - the man didn't have the heart to say no.

000

It was early in the morning. The caravan was just finishing loading, the smell of horses and horse dung, oiled leather, and fresh human sweat matched aurally by the jingle of harness bells, nervous clopping on cobblestones, and the shouts of the traders. Nergal had just mounted on old pied nag, big enough to carry him, but only just, when he accidentally caught the eye of a new acquaintance in the regiment.

The man greeting him warmly, saying "Nergal, buddy, how are you? I thought you were staying in the barracks. What are you doing here?"

"Uh, nothing really," Nergal replied, embarrassed and a little worried. "I've just got to run an errand."

"What do you mean, run an errand, training starts at 8 a.m. sharp!" the man retorted, surprised.

Nergal looked nervously at him, blinked his great eyes a couple of times and swallowed, and dismounted from his horse to speak quietly to his accidental betrayer. He quickly explained that he had been given a message to deliver. He hoped his voice had been soft enough that he was not overheard. His new friend, suddenly quiet, backed away with a wink. Nergal glanced around. No-one seemed to have heard him. He re-mounted his aged horse and maneuvered the two of them into the caravan line. His nervous waiting lasted just a few more minutes, and then they were off, jangling and clopping along a cleared-out path between piles of rubble and still-smoking trees.

000

The caravan was to travel along the busy trade route called Moonsea Ride, heading south through the forested region of Mistledale to its capital, Ashabenford. The journey was expected to take about a day. The group of horses and wagons had plodded their way out of the ruined city, past the guards of the conquering army, then through a burnt and pitted no-man's land ringing the city, which still stank of ashes, magic, and death, and then to an elven checkpoint in a recently created barrier around the city. The elves were in the process of sealing their former capital with magic, allowing travel in or out only at specific places, which would probably grow fewer as the barrier grew in strength.

The elves at the checkpoint looked at Nergal carefully but dispassionately. They had no reason to suspect him, as his people had not been involved in the war. The caravan was about to continue, when a human approached Nergal. The man wore the ubiquitous forest green tunic and brown leggings of the elven forces, but also wore spectacles and walked deliberately, with an air of gravitas about him.

He asked politely, "What is your business on the elven road, sir?"

Nergal nervously replied, "It is not with you, sir."

"But mine is with you," the man said. "You are suspected of being a spy."

Nergal's large eyes grew wide, but he held his ground. "I am no spy, just a messenger," he said truthfully.

Upon hearing this response, the man nodded to himself and walked away. However, the caravan still did not move.

A moment later, he reappeared with a group of elven soldiers. They ordered Nergal to get down off his horse and come with them. Nergal knew he had been caught. Someone, gods know who, must have overheard him and his ill-met acquaintance talking back in the city.

"I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war," Nergal solemnly said to the soldiers, knowing that as such, he would be entitled to better treatment than such armed groups usually dealt out.

The human man sighed. "You are in luck, Mr. Not-a-Spy; I am a lawyer, and will uphold your claim to Prisoner of War rules. However, I will send you back to Myth Drannor. Turn your horse around and head back to the city. And be sure to enter it - our arrows will be trained on you."

Nergal breathed a sigh of relief. He would have been sweating bullets if his race sweated; instead, his highly agitated stated showed only in the jerky movements of his tense limbs and the flushed color of his skin.

Even as he trotted back to the city gate, Nergal thought determinedly of some other method to get the message through and gain honor in his commander's eyes.

000

Minus one horse and with the addition of some woodsman's garb and a backpack, Nergal re-emerged from the nearest adjacent city gate and passed elven inspection with little difficulty. Once again, he benefited from the fact that the dragonborn race had not been prominent in the takeover of Myth Drannor; the elves at this checkpoint had little suspicion of him. This route of egress from the city was a forest path, that joined Moonsea Ride a few miles to the south.

Nergal looked nervously up at the tree-blocked sky, trying to judge the sun's position. He thought it was about mid-day. He strode quickly down the well-used path, mostly ignoring the tentative bird song and sleepy dappled sunlight that here and there breached the tree canopy. Despite the devastation, spring had come to Mistledale Forest. Nergal even caught a glimpse of a raccoon and a doe with her faun as he passed a tranquil pond, his 3-toed taloned feet padding softly even as he hurried. He had a passing thought about stopping a bit to fish for his lunch. He loved to fish, and cherished his time communing with nature and following the age-old path of a hunter's reverence for his prey. But his task was urgent. If he succeeded, there would be plenty of chances to fish in these hopefully soon-to-be-acquired woods.

Nergal met up with the main road without seeing anyone. But a few miles down it, he was passed by a short, stout man driving a wagon. Nergal wasn't sure, but he thought the man was a halfling. The horse and wagon looked almost too big for him to control.

"Ho there, g'day!" said the rather jolly little man. He slowed his wagon, his oversized horse responding promptly, and Nergal could see that he wore the soft-colored homespun of farmers everywhere. "Where be ye headed?" the man asked.

Nergal, a little more wary this time, replied, "I have an errand to run in Ashabenford. I have some business arrangements..." he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

The little man looked at him out of a beady eye, paused a moment, and said, "I be goin' that a-way. My farm's a few miles down the road. I can speed your journey, fer a small considerat'n."

Nergal looked up at the man - was he looking sly or just friendly? He looked around at the lengthening shadows around the road and decided to accept the man's offer.

"I'll give you a silver piece for a ride as far as you'll take me," he said.

"Acceptid!" said the little man heartily, and Nergal climbed up into the bed of the wagon.

The halfling farmer was as good as his word. He even sped his horse up to a trot, to Nergal's great relief.

After about an hour of good progress, they turned off the road and went down a little dirt lane, somewhat pitted and bumpy. The jolts woke Nergal, who had drifted off to sleep with the afternoon haze of the forest and the slow rhythmic motion of the wagon.

As he came to, he saw that they were approaching a diminutive farmhouse and, behind it, a fairly large barn. A wizened old man, probably also a halfling, was rocking in a chair on the house's front porch, whose wooden planks were weathered by the elements to a soft greyish-brown. Children's voices could be heard playing around back.

As the lane was short, Nergal did not protest the slight detour from his route. But he did get up to pay the alert little farmer, who did not leave his high seat on the wagon.

As he was pulling out a silver piece from the meager pouch on his belt, a tall-ish young halfling came running around the corner of the clapboard farmhouse. He or she (for the lanky, partly braided dark brown hair and patched, coarse tunic and leggings could have belonged to someone of either gender) ran up to Nergal, after shouting, "Hi, Dad!" and stared boldly at him, out of breath. Nergal could see that the overlong bangs and dirty face hid a few scratches and a black eye. Nergal also noticed a pair of somewhat pointed ears. Since the Opening, when the elves had first decided to allow some other races into Cormanthor, there had evidently been some inter-breeding between the halflings and their hosts.

"Get off the traveler, Birel," the farmer said roughly, "he's got to be goin' to Benf'rd-town."

Birel's eyes opened wide. "Do you need a guide, Mr., huh, do you?" he/she said eagerly. "I'll show you the way there for a silver piece!"

"Hah," the old man on the porch spat and cackled, "the kid's not worth fifty copper pieces!" He sat ramrod straight in his creaking rocking chair, incongruously staring off into the distance almost wistfully as he spoke.

Nergal was wise enough to know that he didn't know the territory, and also that having a local on his side might buy him passage further down the road. "I'll give ye 25 copper pieces now, and 25 when we get there," he offered.

"Accepted!" cried Birel, sounding a lot like the farmer.

Not having any time to waste, Nergal said a quick goodbye to the bright-eyed farmer, who offered to let him stay the night, saying he was heading to Ashabenford in the morning. But Nergal shook his head and mumbled something about having to get there as soon as possible. He said a polite thank you, turned, and headed back up the little country lane, Birel jogging to keep up with him. Soon, the two turned on to the main road, and the farm faded out of sight behind the leafy, sun-dappled trees.

000

Nergal's decision to employ the little ragamuffin Birel turned out to be a wise one, although it did not immediately seem so. A short distance down the road from the farm, they met a half-drunken human mercenary fighter, one of the many who had aided the losing elven side in the recent conflict. He carried bow and arrow and a pair of vicious looking knives.

"Hold on there!" he shouted at them, "who are ye?"

"My name is...Morel," Nergal clumsily dissembled, anxious to keep his real name (and errand) from the enemy this time.

"Where hie ye to [hiccup]?" the man queried, slurring his words.

"I'm going to Ashabenford, to collect some money due me there."

The drunken soldier looked at him and Birel with exaggerated critical care, peering up at Nergal's solemn face, and then retreating a few steps, as he caught sight of the large, placid, somewhat reptilian eyes looking down at him. He snorted and seemed to come to a decision.

"Say, I don't [hiccup] b'lieve a gosh darn word o' that. Yer an enemy spy, that's what ye are."

"I have told you my name and business," said Nergal firmly, his voice slightly betraying an underlying nervousness, "now let me pass."

The man swayed forward again and replied, "Won't let any durn monster spy pass. Ye've got to come with me to th' tavern. My buddies'll know what to do with ye. Come 'long now." He gestured for them to follow him, his other hand resting on one knife.

Nergal saw the above-referenced tavern a little ways off. He knew that any attempt to fight would provoke the drunken man to shout to his likely drunk and pugnacious companions, ending any chance Nergal might have of talking his way out of this situation. So he decided to go along to the tavern. He looked for Birel, to tell the urchin to follow him, and noticed for the first time that he/she was not there. With a sad expression, he shook his head and headed for the tavern, almost leaving the drunken soldier behind.

When they entered the little whitewashed road house, he found, as expected, several other drunken guerrilla fighters, all well-armed, and all as dumb and unwilling to listen as his captor. They wasted no time in calling to order an impromptu court marshal.

"Gen'lmen, 'fore we proceed ter c'nsider [hic] this case, le's have 'nother drink all round," one drunk said.

Another man, sprawled behind a rough round wooden table, said, "I move to 'mend - two drinks!" There was a general murmur of agreement. After a bit of discussion on the alcohol provided, the mock proceedings got under way. Nergal's captor was called as witness.

"Where'd ye ketch him?" the "judge" asked.

"Down t'the old man's farm, he's a spy," was the conclusive reply.

"Then he ought to be shot," decided his inebriated honor.

"'Taint so," growled a third soldier," hang 'im, if he's a spy."

A fourth soldier had been nodding over his empty glass, his dirty, gristled, greying beard drooping into it, but now he awakened with a start and sagely remarked that they had better take another drink on it. The wisdom of this proposal was so apparent that there was no rebuttal, and the liquor was unanimously called for.

Unfortunately, the additional drink did not dampen the men's zeal to deal "jistice" to the accused; rather it seemed to strengthen their resolve. Having convicted their man, there only remained the carrying out of the sentence. In an unlikely burst of energy, they all stood up and unsteadily marched the still untied Nergal out to a tree in the front yard, calling for a rope as they went.

Nergal was quietly making plans to dash for the woods, as he saw the soldiers' surprisingly skilled attempts to string a noose of a thick jutting branch of a tree out front. He was just about to spring away, when an armored horsemen rode up, halted his high-spirited mount, and called to the brigands, "Halloo, what are ye doing there?"

"Goin' to hang a dashed spy from that Army of Darkness," was the answer, in which drunken obstinacy and deference were surprisingly mingled. Nergal could see that this rider held some authority around here. Although he did not recognize the crest on the horseman's breastplate, he guessed from the polished plate armor and the horse's fine tack that the man might be one of the sixteen Riders of Mistledale, protectors of Ashabenford and the land around.

The Rider looked at Nergal for a second, and said "I know you, I met your part of traders at the barrier this morning. It must be you; there aren't many dragonborn around these parts. Didn't they tell you to turn back? Where are you going?"

"To Ashabenford," Nergal replied dispiritedly. It looked like he would not get through this time either.

"Well, I can't allow you to go on, that would be inconsistent with my duty as a commander of this district, but if you will give me your word of honor that you will go straight back to the city, I will release you."

Nergal looked gratefully at him with his great dark eyes. "You must know the dragonborn race, sir," he said with surprised respect, "we are people of honor. I will do as I promise." And with that, he turned and strode firmly back up the road the way he had come, not daring to look at the stunned and deflated soldiers. As he got back out on the road, he noticed a small movement in the bushes nearby. Birel was peeking out at him warily from behind some low-lying foliage. His sharp eyes were used to spotting fish beneath the ripping water of lakes, and he identified the timid, dirt-besmudged halfling immediately.

He motioned for the ragged creature to come along, and with a spring, he/she jumped out and ran over to follow him closely, braids and tunic flapping.

"I found the Rider," the urchin claimed breathlessly, jogging beside his long strides. "Their guard post is only a little ways down the road."

Nergal didn't know whether to believe the slippery little ragamuffin, but he said "Thank you" anyway, as he moved briskly to get away from the liquor-besotted ne'er-do-wells. "Um," he said as they walked, "are you a girl or a boy?"

"A girl," Birel replied sheepishly, "but as good as a boy!" she rallied. Nergal nodded sagely and continued on, slowing a little, as she was getting out of breath.

Birel had the tact to refrain from asking if he really was a spy, but she did say, "So what now?"

Nergal replied, "I am duty-bound to return to Myth Drannor. You don't have to accompany me."

"But I haven't earned my 25 copper pieces," Birel returned, with something like desperation in her little voice. "I...I have to go with you."

"Well, as you wish." The great cock-comb-crowned head looked down at her, and the lanky figure continued its strangely graceful gait.

They must have looked odd to anyone who saw them pass: a tall, thin, scaled warrior followed by a scruffy, ragged squire of sorts.

000

Back in the city, Nergal sat on a rocky chunk of masonry, despairing. Birel sat on a smaller stone next to him, head in hand. It was night, there were only 24 hours left in which to deliver the message.

"I just don't know how I'm going to get there," Nergal sighed.

"You wanna get to Ashabenford without being seen?" Birel asked rhetorically.

"Yes," Nergal replied simply, eyes downcast.

"I know a trail through the woods that no-one hardly ever takes," she offered.

Nergal looked up, surprised. "How long would it take us to get there?" he queried, a little hope in his voice.

"Oh, a long day, be there after sundown, but not much," she replied.

Nergal soberly considered Birel's idea, and decided that, although it would be cutting it tight, there was no better option at present. He therefore sensibly got them both dinner ("city food!" marveled Birel), put her in a modest boarding house for the night ("I've niver slept in a bed so fine!"), and returned to the barracks himself for a few hours of exhausted sleep.

000

Just before dawn the next day, with the same odd stillness hanging over the stone jumble of the ruined city, they numbly passed by the border guards and out to the burnt circumference and the green forest beyond. They were exiting the city via the same checkpoint and taking the same path which Nergal had used in his second attempt the day before. However, this time, they planned to branch off on another fork of the path that paralleled the road all the way to Ashabenford.

Their journey had gone well, Nergal striding along soundlessly at a moderate pace, Birel's small but strong legs keeping up adequately, as they hiked through the pungent forest.

The sun was setting - already the forest was pretty dark - when they heard people talking on the path up ahead. Immediately Nergal and Birel stopped. Birel pricked up her somewhat pointed ears and crept forward, as silently as a halfling can, to try and see who was there. Nergal ducked and slowly followed her. After a moment, Birel saw and Nergal heard a small group of human soldiers talking. Some of them looked like the drunken mercenaries of the day before! They were talking to a black-robed mage with eerily pale skin, too-bright eyes, and a thin, malicious voice. He was humanoid, but didn't seem to belong to any of the races that Birel knew, not human or elf.

"Isss that bridge done?" the mage hissed.

"Yessir," a hesitant brigand replied, "the bolts are unpinned and your smoke powder bags are set underneath. The next caravan'll go down fer shure. But what's the powder for?"

"Not that ye need to know," drawled the dark mage, "but it will cause an explosion such as you've never seen in these woods. The bridge will go up in sky-high flames!" He cackled malevolently.

A couple of the men laughed nervously along with him; but one said "but the people won't have time to git off it, ain't it so?" scratching his hung-over head.

"No they won't; such a statement it will make!" was the feverishly excited reply. "The smell of burnt flesh will fill the townspeople's nostrils and sicken them. They'll rue the day they ever crossed me!" The inhuman black shape drew itself up proudly.

Birel looked back towards Nergal and then slunk back to him. Together, they retreated farther, to a place firmly out of earshot.

"Wha'do we do?" Birel whisperingly wailed. "They must mean the bridge just north of Benford-town, over th'Ashaba River."

Nergal thought for a moment. He knew the region of Mistledale from a map that the Colonel had shown him back in Myth Drannor. He remembered that the Ashaba River was just west of their destination. It ran north-south, just touching the western side of Ashabenford. Going to the bridge would cause them to detour a bit. He had only four or so hours to get his message delivered and was jealously husbanding every minute. Going to the bridge and warning those crossing it, people who might not arrive until the next day in this country town - would ruin the plan. Or, if they set up a roadblock, removed the smoke powder bags (probably ensorcelled and very dangerous), and continued on his mission, people would probably go ahead and cross anyway, likely meeting their ends when the bridge caved in under them.

A further option, warning the Riders of Mistledale, would also guarantee the failure of his mission, and, besides, why would they believe him?

Nergal sat mournfully and considered his dilemma. Birel watched him for a bit, then her attention drifted and she sat on the mulchy ground of the forest, toying with little sticks and dead leaves from the season before.

"It would be shameful to deliver the message and let the people die," Nergal concluded quietly to himself. "I must go to the bridge and stop them." He looked up sadly, resignedly, but peacefully.

"OK, then," Birel said in response, coming back to reality with a bounce, a bright look on her dirty face. "Let's go!"

As the darkness deepened, Nergal, guided by Birel, who knew all the local paths, headed west, carefully crossing the main road a ways north of town. Nergal realized that every moment he was getting further and further away from a successful military career. Surprisingly, he found that he felt lighter, as they trod, more slowly now, under the somewhat intermittent light of stars and an almost full moon.

000

Around midnight, as far as Nergal could tell, they reached the bridge. At first, they couldn't see anything wrong with it. But when they walked down to the riverbank, along the side of the bridge, Nergal could see that several great wooden joining pegs had been removed. The whole edifice would collapse in a lethal jumble of planks and support beams if someone put substantial weight on it. He imagined a caravan of tradesmen getting to the middle of the structure before its beams suddenly slipped under their weight. He showed the joint holes to Birel.

"Dirty rats, those drunken fools," she began angrily, and then said, "but who is that bad wizard?"

"I don't know," replied Nergal cautiously, "but I don't think we should try to remove his smoke powder bags. They might be cursed."

"Oh," said Birel, abruptly changing her mood to wary concern. "Yeah, sure, we can just warn people, show them the holes and the little bags. They'll probably get the Riders once they see."

"And then I must leave," Nergal stated firmly, but with a hollow voice. His fate was beginning to dawn on him. Having failed in his first, easy mission, he might as well not go back to the army in the city. He knew how they felt about failure. He might not be discharged, but he would certainly be ostracized, and would never have a chance to rise through the ranks to a respectable status. He would never have anything to show the folks back home. The Army of Darkness was no longer his path to honor and glory.

Morning dawned hopeful and sunny, having heard none of Nergal's sad thoughts. Birel turned up with berries and a wineskin full of fresh water from the river. She sat down near him and tried to set the little provender on a wretched handkerchief that she had untied from around her neck. Nergal watched the effort and slowly pulled some bread and dried meat out from his pack. "Hoy, a feast!" Birel exclaimed delightedly.

They had finished eating and were placing a few logs (Nergal) and branches (Birel) across the entrance to the desecrated bridge, when a caravan approached. They could hear it as it came nearer, silent on the dirt road except for the creaking of empty barrels and the jingling of harness bells on the horses. From the stains on the barrels, Nergal could tell that they had held wine, probably delivered to Ashabenford's inns.

When the still fresh horses and riders came into view, Nergal walked out into the middle of the road and began to wave his great long arms, calling out solemnly, "Stop, stop!"

The lead rider pulled up beside him, angrily swearing. But his antipathy towards Nergal died quickly when he saw the condition of the bridge, and the small rune-marked bags strategically placed underneath. The burly man began cussing out the knaves who did this heinous thing, stopping only long enough to send one of his fellow riders back to the Mistledale Guard House.

Nergal saw that the caravan members were preoccupied, talking together and complaining about the delay. He took the opportunity to quietly retreat into the woods, opposite to the way they had come. Birel noticed him go and slipped down the path alongside of him. "Where'r we goin'?" she asked.

"I don't know where I'm going." Nergal sadly replied. "My career is done. Ye might as well go home. Here are your copper pieces." He fished in his pouch and brought out the coins.

"Ya know, don't give me them now," Birel said softly as she trotted along beside him. "I ain't done showin' you the way."

"As you wish," Nergal replied, putting the coins back into his deflated pouch.

The End 


End file.
